“Marisol Hinton?”
“Yes.”
“One of our secure phones?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t they for departmental use only?”
“Yes.”
“And you want me to give one to Marisol Hinton?”
“A loaner.”
Suitcase didn’t say anything.
Jesse didn’t say anything.
“You could get in trouble for this,” Suitcase said.
“I’ll take my chances,” Jesse said.
—
Jesse was sitting in the living room, scotch in hand, when his cell phone rang.
“What did you think,” Frankie said.
“She’s very frightened.”
“She has me worried.”
“I can understand why.”
“I’ve never seen her like this before.”
“You might want to consider providing her with some personal security.”
“We already have one of our officers assigned to her.”
“I’m not talking about movie cops. I mean genuine security. More exclusive and more arduously trained than the average cop who services a movie set.”
“Are you suggesting a bodyguard?”
“I’m suggesting a tactical security officer.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone highly skilled in the serious business of providing personal protection. A person with martial arts expertise, knowledgeable about weaponry and trained in the finer points of security.”
“You know someone like that?”
“I might.”
“Would he be expensive?”
“Yes.”
“Would the movie be responsible for paying him?”
“I wouldn’t know about that. But when I was in L.A., I knew a handful of qualified operatives whose job it was to provide protection services to top-tier movie actors. There’s always an obsessed clown or two out there who believes that it’s his or her destiny to marry some media star and who will stop at nothing to get next to that star. Think Madonna. Jennifer Aniston. David Letterman. All of them victims of deranged stalkers. It’s a whole lot more efficient to hire someone genuinely qualified to deal with these head cases than it is to leave it to some inexperienced rent-a-cop.”
“I don’t know if we can even afford it.”
“Let me see if the guy I’m thinking about is even available,” Jesse said. “Then you can worry about affording it. But I’ll bet you have a few bucks stashed away in one of your general accounts that you can surreptitiously latch on to.”
“You’re smarter than you look.”
“No one ever suffered from being underestimated,” he said.
24
How may I help you,” said the voice on the other end of the line.
“No ‘How nice it is to hear from you,’” Jesse said.
“It’s nice,” the voice said. “What do you want?”
“You interested in a job?”
“It depends.”
“On?”
“The job.”
Jesse explained the job and the circumstances. And who it was that required his services.
“Why me?”
“Nobody better.”
“You noticed.”
“Be hard not to.”
“Salary?”
“Negotiable.” There was silence for a while.
“So,” Jesse said.
“I’ll be there tomorrow.”
—
I’ll check to make sure he’s in,” Ida Fearnley said, somewhat less friendly than she was previously.
After several moments, she emerged from Commissioner Goodwin’s office.
“He’ll see you,” she said.
Jesse went inside. William J. Goodwin was standing behind his desk, all four feet seven of him.
“Twice in one week,” he said. “That’s a record.”
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“What can I do for you now?”
“I’m afraid I’m here for the same reason I was last time.”
“Water rates?”
“Yes. I had an unsettling conversation with one of your employees. Oscar LaBrea.”
“Why would you be talking with Oscar LaBrea?”
“Follow-up,” Jesse said.
“Follow-up to what?”
“To the conversation I had with you.”
“You talked with one of our employees?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the issue of possible meter tampering hasn’t gone away.”
“Meter tampering, is it,” Goodwin said.
Jesse didn’t say anything.
“You suspect this department of engaging in meter tampering?”
“I don’t suspect anyone of anything. I’m fact-finding, is all.”
“And what facts did you learn from Mr. LaBrea?”
“Nothing specific, but I found his response to my visit unsettling.”
“Oh?”
“He became evasive, and at one point, he broke off the conversation and told me he needed to speak with his lawyer.”
“Why would he do that?”
“That was going to be one of my questions to you,” Jesse said.
Goodwin didn’t say anything.
“Why do you suppose Mr. LaBrea said that,” Jesse said.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Why would he need a lawyer?”
“I said I wouldn’t know.”
“Is he a trustworthy employee?”
“He’s worked here for twelve years.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Why would you ask me that?”
Jesse didn’t respond.
“Do you suspect me of something,” Goodwin said, drawing himself up to his full height.
“Why would you think that?”
“Because I don’t like the tone of your questioning.”
“Mr. Goodwin,” Jesse said, “I’ve received complaints regarding possible irregularities at Paradise DWP. I’m here in response to those complaints. It’s part of my job. I’m simply trying to determine what happened.”
“And you think that somehow I’m involved in meter tampering?”
“I never said that.”
“But you think that.”
“I don’t think anything except that both Mr. LaBrea and now you are behaving in a puzzling manner.”
“This meeting is over, Chief Stone,” Goodwin said. “If you have any further questions, please forward them to the DWP legal department. Hopefully you’ll find satisfaction in their responses. Good day, sir.”
Jesse stared at Goodwin for a while.
Goodwin shifted his feet uneasily.
“I said good day, Chief Stone.”
Jesse left without responding.
25
Jesse parked his cruiser near the entrance to the footbridge that led to his house.
Wilson Cromartie was leaning against the railing, watching a flock of gulls as they made their way across the horizon, occasionally dipping into the sea in search of prey. He looked up when he heard Jesse approach.
“How,” he said, raising his palm.
Jesse smiled.
Crow was a full-blooded Apache, well over six feet tall, dressed casually but elegantly. He wore a white shirt, pressed jeans, polished boots, and a silver concho belt. He was inordinately handsome, and he moved with an easy grace. He was all angles and planes, as if he had been packed very tightly into himself. His muscles bulged against his taut skin like sharp corners. Everything about him spoke of tightly compressed force.
“So when do I get to meet her?”
“Now, if you want.”
“It’s not every day that a humble Indian brave gets to rub elbows with a real-life movie star,” he said.
“So long as that’s all you rub,” Jesse said.
—
Frankie was in her motor home, sorting through a huge stack of bills, when Jesse and Crow showed up.
“You’re the bodyguard,” she said to Crow.
“I’m Wilson Cromartie. On occasion I perform services as a personal security specialist.”